Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  An hour later Stacey and Hope were talking into coffees at a cafe called the Molly Sands.

  ‘This is the first beverage we’ve shared that wouldn’t cause a hangover,’ observed Stacey, stirring in a good dose of sugar into hers. ‘If you’re intending to make the conversation bourgeois you’d better look under the table.’

  Hope saw that underneath the silk white tablecloth her bare foot was rising between his legs and it didn’t stop there. He scolded his tongue on his coffee as he neglected to blow. ‘You can pick the topic,’ he murmured.

  ‘We’ve just been served by a woman that someone was willing to go to jail for. That’s a topic.’

  Hope sought out the cafe’s solitary waitress from across the cleanly presented tables of white cloth and dark wood. She was taking the order of a newly arrived dour looking couple. She was attractive in a homely fashion with an endearing smile and kindly manner. A man would feel at ease in her presence: in Hammer Coller’s case, it was so much so a world class knockout blow was able to breach his defence.

  ‘It is a worthy topic of conversation,’ Hope agreed, ‘not that I have anything to say about it.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ replied Stacey, using that foot to give him a kick. ‘It pains me the way men let love overwhelm them.’ She shook her head. ‘It always starts out as a game. When it turns into a war, do you know who wins? The ones who still play it as a game.’

  She lurched forward, grabbing his wrist. ‘I’ve put on your ring for a reason, but that doesn’t mean I’ll get to turn as shiny or last as long, and whatever happens you’ve got to promise you won’t get yourself thrown into any kind of jail over me. Not like the lost champion out there waiting in your car.’

  Hope pushed away his bitter black coffee. ‘Is this what the bourgeois talk about? I’d rather do it with hard liquor.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Stacey sprung up. ‘Let’s go tell your friend his ex-fiance still looks the same as in his jailbird photograph. And that she serves an overpriced cup of coffee. Best not to delay ‘cause your car has become his latest prison cell.’

  Hope went with her and her fingers entwined with his.

  Hammer Coller was lounging with a tense idleness in the Ford’s back seat, smoking on one of the two cigarettes he was holding. He met Stacey and Hope’s return with a suspicious gaze. ‘She was there? You didn’t stay very long.’

  ‘She was there,’ said Hope. ‘We didn’t trust ourselves not to spill the beans about her ex-fiancé being out of the cage and parked across the street. ‘Who knows, she might even want to hear it from the man himself.’

  ‘She’ll hear from me alright,’ gnarled Hammer. He exhaled a long snaking stream of smoke towards Hope. ‘You know I was framed for the robbery that put me in prison? But when the jury declared me guilty, I didn’t complain. I was like a boxer taking directions from a coach. They want guilty, they’re going to get it. And for the next few days even more so. You still up for another drink?’

  ‘Sure, why not. But I get the feeling it won’t be Happy Hour.’

  Hammer shock his head. ‘Putting me in prison was Lance Shipton’s way of showing he didn’t approve of the match. One week before the wedding the cops came crashing down my door with their trumped up charges. Ten years I got. Probably all the cop witnesses asked for in return for their testimony was a suit and fittings.’

  That helped jog Hope’s memory. Lance Shipton the tailor: Shipton’s Suits was the store name and there were branches scattered across the city. Boston and Washington too. Hope had seen the man himself once or twice, sunken in the luxurious leather sofa chairs of the Underhill Cigar Club. Usually preferring the poker room. Handsomely middle aged, impeccably well groomed and, of course, resplendently attired. Old money. Which was not necessarily the cleanest.

  ‘That’s his daughter?’ said Hope, pointing towards the café with Molly Sands painted onto its glass in red.

  ‘They’re estranged. She gave me that honour.’

  ‘But you’re free now,’ said Stacey. ‘To be with her again would be the best revenge.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Hammer clenched his teeth. ‘I was not released for good behaviour, and certainly not to show good behaviour. The Police Commissioner’s nephew has a gambling problem, you see. He has racked up a serious debt at Shipton’s illegal gambling dens. Debts which Shipton has refused to annul; not for the nephew of a mere cop. So, I was released early as a threat. Annul the debt and I’ll be thrown back into the slammer nice and easy. Don’t annul the debt and I will be breaking my parole by destroying everything he owns and probably by killing him on top of that.’ He glared at his spare cigarette as though trying to light it with his eyes. ‘During my first parole hearing I was taken aside by one of the Commissioner’s cronies and told to make a list of all the things in the Lance Shipton empire I would be a able to wreck. A week later I was granted a parole appeal hearing and it was on the strength of that list I was granted my release.’ He flicked his cigarette out onto the wet street. ‘You can say I still have a choice not to do this thing, but they’re going to throw me back into jail no matter which way I turn, so I want my revenge to take back with me.’

  Hope nodded coolly. ‘Can I see the list?’

  Hammer patted his shirt pocket protectively. ‘Not a chance. But you can come along if you’d like. I’d appreciate a bit of company. Jail can get so lonesome sometimes.’

  Hope looked to Stacey and saw that she was keen.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll come along.’